


Untimely Emotions

by Lispet



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: FTM Dave, Medical Procedures, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 15:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2512727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lispet/pseuds/Lispet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes missing abruptly and then Dave finds him two months later in the park.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untimely Emotions

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for mentions of kidnap and rape, ((its not in the warnings up above because it doesn't happen on screen. If its too triggery for someone I'm happy to change it)), as well as teenagers being fucking idiots.  
> other warnings include graphic-ish description of medical procedures and teenagers being idiots  
> This is heavily based of an RP I did with this amazing John thank you so much it was amazing! You just let me rant on for ages haha

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] started pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 19:23 --

CG: DAVE JUST COME BACK ALREADY ITS GETTING COLD  
CG: I KNOW I ALWAYS JOKE ABOUT YOU BARELY HAVING TWO BRAINCELLS TO RUB TOGETHER BUT THIS IS RIDICULOUS  
CG: ITS BEEN TWO MONTHS  
CG: IF HE WERE COMING BACK HE WOULD BE BACK ALREADY  
CG: JUST LET THE COPS DO THEIR JOB THEY'LL FIND HIM  
TG: fuck you  
TG: you know i cant do that

Karkat’s right. You should go home. But you can’t help but shake the nagging feeling that he’ll be back. He has to be back. He can’t just-  
There’s someone sitting on the park bench. You can’t help but hope for a split second that it’s him. It’s probably just some homeless guy though. But the guy shifts uncomfortably and pushes black framed glasses up to rub his eyes tiredly and suddenly you’re sprinting across the lawn, scarcely able to believe that it might be-  


“Dude, John.” The guy on the bench looks up and relief floods through you, pouring from your heart like a waterfall to fill your gut to overflowing. “Where the fuck where you man?” You want to grab John and pull him into a hug and never let him go.  


“Huh?” John just stares at you, hands back in his pockets and that’s not his coat what the fuck.  


You sit next to him instead of smothering him against your chest. “You’ve been gone like two months.” Sitting down throws your face into the pale yellow glow of the street lamp, and John’s eyes light up with recognition. That’s all they’re alight with though. John’s skinny and pale, and looks like he hasn't slept since you saw him last.  


“Oh, hey Dave.” He looks back at the ground and smiles bitterly. “Yeah, I know…”  


You keeps watching him, and know it's a stupid question before it even falls out of your mouth. “Is everything okay?”  


John snorts and kicks at the cement path. “Not really.” And you should’ve known the answer to that already.  


You try to let everything come out at once at that point, and it just ends up as an awkward glob of words. “You wanna dad about you’re back?” You blink. “Wow thanks tongue. You wanna talk about it? Does your dad know you’re back?”  


John nods, and then shakes his head. “He doesn’t.”  


You have your phone out of your pocket and forced into John’s hand before you realise what you’re doing. It’s just hardly eight. John’s dad should definitely still be up. John hesitates and stares at your phone dully, before his fingers shift so slowly you thinks you can hear the joints creaking. He unlocks it and dials his dad’s number, and you can’t help but put and arm around his shoulders and pull him up against your side. “It’s gonna be ok man.”  


John worries at his lip with his teeth. “I hope so.” He twitches and you can just hear John’s dad, voice tinny through the speaker. You rub at John’s shoulder in what you hope is a reassuring manner whilst John talks to his dad.  


“H-hey dad. I’m okay.” You don't even try to listen in on the conversation. John goes lax for a second and sinks into your side before tensing again, but he leaves his head on your shoulder. “Yeah, I’m fine.”  


You let John talk, and watch him from the corner of your eye instead. Your first appraisal was correct. That is not John’s jacket. It’s about four sizes too big for him. His jeans are ripped around the knees and overall a bit threadbare. He’s got what looks to be his own shirt on under the jacket, and his glasses don't have any lenses in them. His lip’s split right down the middle, and when he’s not talking its between his teeth. Apart from that he seems okay. Well that and a bruise on his throat that shifts when he talks and jumps when he swallows. Which is often.  


John is saying goodbye and you leans over to stop him quickly. “Stay at mine tonight. It’s closer.”  


John just nods and starts talking to his dad again. He nods a few times and then hangs up quickly. “Okay.”  


“How does the other guy look?” You accepts your phone and slip it back into your pocket.  


“Huh?” John looks up at you and frowns. “What other guy?”  


You thought he would’ve gotten that one, but apparently his brain’s a bit rattled too. “You look like you went one-to-one with a bear. I was just wondering if the other guy looked worse.”  


John looks back at his feet and shakes his head sharply.  


“So what happened?” You shouldn’t be pressing, but you’ve been so worried. “I mean its okay if you don't wanna talk. But we were all freaking out.”  


John is silent for a long time, and you squeeze his shoulder gently. He jumps and looks up sharply. “It’s okay!” He rushes, eager as ever to please. There’s some other motivation there than his natural born instincts of kindness though. “Just… not here. Somewhere private?”  


“Yeah sure. Bro’s at work tonight. We can talk at mine.”  


John’s smile is a pale imitation of what it should be, but you still feels the stab of guilt when he sees it. John will be fine, he can keep his chin up though anything.  


You stand and stretch your back, and when John stands with you, you could swear he lost three inches whilst he was gone, but its just because he’s shrunk in on himself. “C’mon.”  


The walk to your place is, mercifully, short.  


You usher John into the apartment you share with Bro, and John shifts uncomfortably in the jacket, fiddling with the zip.  


“You wanna wash your stuff? You look like you haven’t showered in weeks.”  


John hesitates, but takes the jacket off. “Sure.” You hold his your out and take the jacket off him, and throw it through the open laundry door. “But I’ll need something to change into.”  


“You get in the shower, I’ll get you some clothes. They’ll be a bit big but mine should fit.”  


“Okay, thank you.” He’s painfully stiff and formal, but he goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. You wait until you hear the water running before moving to get John the promised clothes. You don’t even bother with anything but comfortable, and come out of your bedroom with an old shirt, tracksuit pants and a thick hoodie. You pull a towel from the linen closet after being drowned in plush smuppet rump. John isn’t in the shower when you get back, you can tell but the way the water sounds on the tiles. You knock on the door.  


John is still fully clothed when he opens it and he accepts the pile of laundry. “Thanks.”  


“Just dump your dirty clothes in the laundry. You can stay here as long as you want.”  


John nods and thanks you again, and withdraws into the bathroom and pushes the door shut. You go back to the living area and flick the kettle on to make some tea. If there’s anything you’ve learnt from Bro that has nothing to do with swords and being cool (which implies that swords are not cool when in fact, they are so cool that they deserve a category all on their own), it’s that a cup of tea is really fucking nice when you’re exhausted and dirty.  


You wait ten minutes before going to check on John. You rap smartly on the door. “Everything okay? You haven’t drowned on me have you? That would be a tragedy. Macbeth sort of thing. Just get you back and you’re dead.”  


John’s voice is hesitant and quiet. “I’m f-fine.” The water turns off.  


“Yeah see, you don’t sound all right. This is coming from the guy who knows injuries by their smell. Okay that was weird and totally not literal, but you get the point. You know what Bro and I are like. If you need help, tell me.”  


There’s the rustling of a towel from the other side of the door. “I said I’m fine.” John’s voice is too loud to have the door shut properly. Dave looks and sure enough it’s not sitting in the frame properly. Steam is crawling out of the gap.  


“Are you decent?” You trust John, but you don’t _trust_ him.  


“Y-yeah?” John squeaks.  


“Okay, just checking.” You push the door open and peek inside, momentarily blinded by the wall of white. John forgot to turn the exhaust fan on. When it clears enough you actually cannot believe your eyes. “What the fuck dude. That is not okay. Are your ribs broken?”  


John flinches as though the whole idea is reprehensible. “No… Just bruised a lot.”  


You’re going to be horrible now, and play on John’s inherent urge to please people. “John do me a favour. Take a deep breath in.”  


John stares at you, but does at he’s asked. He grits his teeth, but he’s not yowling so.  


“Put your arms straight out from your sides.” He does this too, and only winces. Okay he’s fine. “Fuck, okay. Get on the couch.” You don’t even care that he’s dripping wet. You stand out of the doorway and gesture to the couch. You’re fucking worried. John has been gone for two months and he comes back with bruised ribs, a handprint on his throat and a split lip, which just started bleeding again because John won’t stop chewing on it.  


John grabs at the tracksuit pants. “I-I’m fine Dave, really.” He pulls the pants on under the towel.  


You don't know where the energy to be mad came from, considering you’ve hardly slept out of worry and fear and self-loathing for letting John vanish like that. “GET ON THE COUCH, JOHN.” You roar. Your voice bounces off the tiles of the small room and you instantly regret losing your temper, because John flinches like you just took a swing at him.  


“O-okay.” His voice is small and he shrinks further in on himself, but he walks past you.  


You just pinch the bridge of your nose and take a deep breath. You really should not have shouted at John. You push past him as he leaves the room and crouch by the sink to get the first aid kit out. When you get out to the couch, John is sitting cross-legged, facing you.  


The coffee table gets unceremoniously shoved out of the way and over towards the TV so you can settle and unpack in front of John. You don’t think you’ll need a lot, so you just get a pair of rubber gloves from the box and the rubbing alcohol and a handful of cotton wool.  


John watches you work, bare faced and bare chested and so vulnerable you wants to kiss him but you can’t. “…what’s the diagnosis, doc?” he whispers, like he’s afraid you’re going to yell again and you want to find a scalpel and cut those words out of the past.  


“I’m sorry.” You whisper back. “I’ve been so fucking worried.” You open the bottle of rubbing alcohol. “Talk to me, and I'll look at you.”  


“No, I understand.” John shuffles forwards so you can reach him. You pour some rubbing alcohol onto some cotton, and when you lean forwards to push it to the split in his lip you have to rest your stomach on his knees and shins. “Uh okay, what should I talk about?”  


“What happened?” You wipe the little stray lumps of wet cotton off his lip and note absently that he didn’t flinch when you dripped alcohol in the cut.  


“Well,” John hesitates and wipes at the corner of his mouth with his thumb, “y’know the rule that girls have-“ he winces when you drip more alcohol in the cut and wipe over it. “-the one where you just don't walk home alone? Yeah, that should go for everyone.” Your blood runs cold and you distract yourself by wiping at his lip more because speaking cracked his lip open and blood was beading on the skin.  


“Keep going.” You murmur. You force yourself to take one of John’s hands and check for injuries. You know what he’s talking about. The four of you, him, Rose, Jade and you, went to see a movie and he said he’d be fine to walk home alone. You’d offered to go with him, but when he declined you’d just dropped it, not wanting to seem pushy. Guilt overwhelms you and you accidentally squeeze his wrist too tight, although he hardly notices.  


“I got picked up on eight street, in front of that alley there.” He glances over himself and then looks up and out the window. “The bastard had a van and a brick.”  


You know you have to say something, but all that comes out is a croak. “Shit.” It should have been you. You’re taller but much skinnier. Well you were. But you could’ve made him go, run home. You’re strong and fast enough to take care of yourself.  


John just nods and you clean his hands up. They’re just grazes, so it’s just to make sure he doesn’t get any infections. You smear some antiseptic cream over all of them. “I still get headaches occasionally, but it wasn’t pretty.” You opt to look over John’s head next, but there’s no cuts or bruises. There is a scar on the crown of his head though. Its already healed so all you can do is hope it’s okay.  


“How are your legs?” You sit back and let him uncross his legs.  


“About the same. There’s a gash on my thigh though.”  


You grab the hems of the leg. “Sorry but I gotta clean it up. I don't want anything infected.” You tug at the pant leg. “Can you please?”  


“Y-yeah… can you look away? For a moment?” John has his towel over his shoulders and you put your hands over your eyes. You feel him get up and shift and then he sits back down. “You can look.”  


You push the towel, now around his hips, right up so his legs are completely bare, but his groin is still covered. “Sorry dude I can’t risk anything.” You appraise the gash on his thigh, and then wipe around the edges with the cotton wool. “Shit that’s worse than I thought.”  


John nods and just says that he knows.  


“You wanna keep talking for me. It’ll help keep your mind off the pain. Swearing helps too.” You know from personal experience.  


“There’s not much else to say but, alright.”  


You squeeze his knees. “I just gotta get some water first, hold tight.” You bring back two basins of warm water with several rags soaking in one of them. You pour a liberal amount of Dettol into that one.  


“That’s a lot of water.”  


“We're going to need it.” You say sagely. You feel ancient. You’re far too young to know how to deal with shit like this but you’re glad you do. You grab the two towels you also brought along and lay them on the wooden floor. “You’re going to have to move.” You gesture to the towels and he stands slowly, wincing as the raw edges of the cut shift.  


“So I just start babbling?” He asks when he’s halfway to the floor.  


“Go nuts. Just shuck your towel up again.”  


John obeys and winces, but he starts chattering about whatever his mind can land on, how much it hurts, how he hopes he doesn't get an infection, how he hopes it doesn't look too bad when it’s clean.  


You grab a rag and squeeze the water from it and then squeeze the rest of the water onto the wound. It does look better clean, but only marginally. “This should stitch up fine.” John just nods and keeps babbling. “But most of these just need some gauze, but that one there’ll need stitching.” He flicks his eyes up to yours and he’s not as frightened as he should be. He probably doesn't realise the gravity of that. “I don't have any serious painkillers. I can patch you up as good as I can here by myself, or take you to the hospital, or wait for Bro to get home and he can help me. You might think it’s not much but it fucking canes the first time. You’ll thrash around and I don't want to risk making it worse.”  


John squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away. “I-it’ll be fine. Go ahead.”  


You poke his knee. “I’ll still wait until I’ve cleaned all of you up. It’ll be safer that way.”  


John shakes his head violently. “I’ll be fine… trust me?” he says that like a question, as if you don't. Honestly you don't know if you trust him with his own health.  


You’d be tempted to slap him if you could get away with it. If he wasn’t so honest-to-god fucked up right now. “John I can’t risk bacteria from dirty wounds getting into clean wounds. It’s bad enough I’m doing this on the lounge room floor. I need to know what I’m working with before I start.”  


What little of him is left seems to shy away, but he nods. “… alright, you’re the doctor.”  


You start bandaging the lesser wounds on John’s leg with antiseptic cream, gauze and tape. John is dead silent as you work, occasionally flexing his fingers in the towel. When you’re done, you lean back and inspect your handiwork. “Yeah okay apart from that gash on your thigh you’re good.” You run your thumb along the point of it where it sits high near his groin, pulling the edges back together. “You’re fucking lucky though. That only just missed your femoral artery.”  


“Oh…” John shifts and peers at the cut where your thumb is holding it shut. “That would have been bad.”  


“No shit.” You put the dirty rag aside and grab a fresh one, squeezing it out and laying it over the side of the basin. “You wanna sit up straight? I need to see that bruising on your ribs.” You reach out towards him and he flinches. “Just going to touch your chest and ribs as gently as I can.” He nods and then slowly unfurls, slower than you thought possible, and he’s about halfway to upright and you hear a very ugly sound. It’s wet and makes your stomach turn and there’s a twang like a guitar string snapping.  


“John.” You say. He’s trying to hide something.  


“Y-yeah?”  


“That was a very skin-teary sound. I know that for a fact. From personal experience.”  


John looks away from you, for all intents and purposes the puppy caught with its nose in the cookie jar.  


“You know I’m not going to judge you for anything. Or blame you, right? You’ve been through a lot of trauma.” John nods quickly. “And I need to take care of you.” John nods slower this time. “So can you tell me what that was.” It’s not a question, even if you worded it like one. John is going to tell you the answer or you will call Bro right the fuck now and make him come home, work be damned. John knows this, you can see it in his eyes.  


John avoids saying anything for a long minute, just staring at the rag on the edge of the bowl, dripping water onto the floor. You snap your fingers and he jumps out of his trance. “It was my stitches tearing.” He blurts too quickly. He doesn't want you to know, and you understand that, but he’s not doing himself any favours by hiding this. “Again.” He adds before you can speak.  


“Why do you already have stitches.” You say dumbly. Then what he said registers. “And what do you mean again?!”  


“I-I tried to escape. Eleven times.” He looks away frmo you and he’s fucking ashamed. You want to beat some sense into him. Your insides feel like they’re about to burst from the amount of pride you hold for this kid. “He’d hit me with chains and stuff every time.” John squeezes his eyes shut and then into his palms. “They popped a lot.”  


You ache for him. You love him so much and you wish you could take the hurt away for good, just hold him to your chest and let him know its all going to be alright, you’re going to keep him safe, always keep him in your sight. You don't think he’d appreciate that. He doesn’t like you that way. “I’d hug your head but my hands are disinfected and I can’t touch anything dirty.” That’s a paltry offering of your emotions but it's all you feel safe sharing with him. “Now turn around so I can try to make something of your back.”  


John turns slowly, but for all his care you hear another stitch go. “Damnit.”  


His shoulders and back are riddled with poorly tied stitches and half scabbed wounds. There are a few low on his back and one or two over the knobs of his upper spine that have burst open, and there is blood drooling down his back in shiny red rivulets.  


“Who the fuck even stitched you up?” You stare at the stitches trying to figure out how someone could fuck up so badly. “Is that fishing line? What the actual fuck.”  


“He did. The guy who… yeah.” John is past emotion and caring now. You can hear it. He sounds hollow, exhausted.  


“Okay hold tight I’m just going to casually tear your fucking back open again. This is so surreal.” You stare at the stitches and wonder where to even start. What will his back look like when it's all torn up again? Will he bleed a lot? You hope he won’t. You wouldn't be able to fix him up quickly enough if he does, not without Bro here to help. “I just need new gloves and a scalpel.” You don’t want to take any risks. You take your gloves off and get a new pair, and take a surgical scalpel and peel the paper away to hold the curved razor. “Talk to me John.” You mind wont stop skipping over the same point over and over and over and over. You nearly lost John. It was your fault. You need him to talk to you, remind you that he’s okay. He’s right fucking there you can put your hands on him you’re going to put your hands on him to cut the stitches.  


John nods as you pull the first stitch and slice it open, but says nothing. You ball your hands into fists to stop them shaking.  


“Please John I’m really—shit.”  


John swallows; you can hear his throat working around too little saliva. “I-I find it easier to bite my tongue.”  


You push your shades off your face and rub at your eyes with the back of your arm. You actually don't have the energy to argue with him. “I need you to talk to me please. This bit doesn't hurt. Promise.” He doesn't understand you have to know he’s okay. You have to know you’re not hurting him. “It’s like getting pinched.”  


“… Alright.” John sucks air into his lungs, and the stitches on his back stretch under the strain.  


You pull the stitches slightly away from his skin one by one, slicing through them easily. You don't pull them right out quite yet. “John, I need you to talk to me.”  


And then words start falling out of his mouth, unchecked and uncensored. “I only got fed once a day. It was okay food, like those pre-made sandwiches at supermarkets.”  


“Gross.” You keep slicing the stitches, and now he’s talking, as disgusting the content is, your hands are working surer and steadier.  


“Sometimes it was in the mornings, more often at night. I think. It was hard to tell a lot of the time. It wasn't too bad. I just imagined it was school food.”  


“Yeah?” You’ve finished cutting the terrible sutures, and you put the blade back in its packet to keep it clean. You start plucking stitches out one by one.  


“Yeah, but at least it was food.”  


“How’d you get out?” It’s quick work, this bit.  


“I didn’t… he dumped me on that bench and drove off maybe fifteen minutes before you got there.”  


“Shit.” You stop pulling stitches. “You—”  


John nods like he knows what you’re thinking. “Thrown out like trash when he was done with me.”  


You flinch. “No John, you’re not…” oh god you only just got him if you hadn’t had that argument with Karkat you would’ve missed him not gotten there until the next day. You would’ve been too late. “You’re…” you want to tell him how you feel, how he’s not trash. He’s fucking perfect and you know he’s not going to believe you if you tell him. Not for a long while. What you blurt out is much too much the truth for your comfort. “I think I’m going to cry.” You try to make light of this, make it a joke, by adding; “Don't tell Rose.”  


John twists like he’s going to turn around and you hold him still so he doesn't tear his back apart worse than it already it. “D-don’t cry!” He swallows again, and he’s shaking. God you should just keep your emotions to yourself. Your hands still on his back and you try to look at this objectively. It’s not John. It’s not John’s back. John is sitting behind you talking about stuff. It doesn’t help. “Please don’t cry!”  


“Yeah,” your voice is thicker than you want it to be, but you clear your throat. One of you has to be strong, and you don't want it to have to be John. “I’m trying. Just talk to me.” You start plucking stitches out again, one by one. You’re nearly half way. They come easier now you know this isn’t hurting John as much as he expected it.  


“Well… he did a lot with me.” You want to take back everything. Stop him talking. But you have to know what he’s going to say. To confirm your suspicions at the least. “Not stuff I’d really want to share…” He stops, and says the next bit haltingly, in about three different sentences. “But… to put it, lightly,” his shoulders shift under his skin and blood trickles down over your fingers. He lifts his hands and shoves his face into them, “not a virgin.”  


You have no idea what to say. You should turn autopilot off before- “I guessed that the moment you said he had a van and a brick.” Fuck. That.  


John’s face comes out of his hands and he just stares at his fingers, occasionally flexing one. “Yeah…”  


“I’m just so fucking glad you’re okay.” And there goes your mouth, with the feelings and the truth. You lean forwards and put your forehead on the nape of his neck, where there are no cuts. You shouldn’t, you’re breathing into flesh and blood, but having him so close is comforting. Your breaths come more even and your hands aren’t shaking with anger anymore.  


“Me too.” John tips his head back to lean it against yours, and you wish he were doing that because he wanted you, not just the comfort you could provide. You pull your head away and start pulling the shitty sutures out again. “… I got yelled at a lot. When he wasn't there I’d try to escape. Farthest I ever got was two blocks.”  


You pull the last few stitches out and squeeze water out over his shoulders before answering. “That's a pretty good effort.”  


John’s head hunches forwards again and his voice is pained. “Yeah, but not good enough.” He’s blaming himself again, beating himself up over something he couldn’t control.  


“Hey, you didn't give up. I’m proud of you.”  


“Thanks.” His voice is broken and quiet, and you know he doesn't believe you.  


You finish cleaning his back before breaking the silence. “Is that it? Because I need to scrub up before stitching.”  


“Yeah that’s it.”  


“Okay. I’ll be right back.” You stand and run to the laundry, stripping your shirt off as you go. John knows about you. He wont freak out if you come back in nothing but a binder. You scrub up to your shoulders and dry off with paper towels. John hasn't moved when you return. He’s just staring at his hands again. You notice that his fingernails are bitten right down, and his hands are downright skeletal. You sit behind him again. “Hey,” you call to get his attention, “you see on top there’s a pair of gloves in plastic wrap? Can you peel them open?” John reaches for the packet and peels them open obediently. He’s your nurse as well as your patient. You put the gloves on like Bro taught you, keep the outsides clean. “That green fabric package next. Just break the tape and open it. Just don't touch the inside fabric. Just open it and lay it flat on the floor by your hip.” John doesn't even ask why. He just does as you ask. You want to put your hands on his face and just stroke his cheeks with your thumbs. Do something stupid and make him just crack a smile. Just make him not feel so useless and alone. You need to find a way to make him feel wanted, loved. “This is the bit that hurts. There’s a bit of rubber if you want to bite down on it.”  


John takes it and tentatively puts it in his mouth. “’stes ‘eird.”  


“Yeah I know.” You open the thread box. “I think a size 1 will be right.” You grab the forceps and a 3/8 curved needle and cut a length of suture thread. “Its better than chewing your tongue off.”  


John spits the rubber off. “I tried that already.”  


You clamp your knees on each side of John’s hips just in case, and he puts the rubber back between his teeth. You pull some skin away and unceremoniously shove the needle through. John grunts and bites down on the rubber hard, but that’s what it's there for. “I hope Bro doesn't knock off early. This will take a while.” John’s hands clench compulsively around his knees and his groan is muffled. “I’m so sorry dude. I wish I had some morphine or something, but it’s so fucking hard to get. Just hold tight for a bit. This is the easy one.” And it is. The skin is so much less sensitive here than anywhere else on the body. John whimpers and nods frantically, and you sacrifice a little bit of accuracy for speed. You don't want to draw this out any longer than is necessary. You work in silence, save for John’s groans of pain.  


He looks like some cobbled-together monster, but it looks so much better you don't even have the words to describe it. “You look so much better you don't even understand. They should hold just fine. Can you turn around?” John spits out the rubber and pulls a face. “Like fucking hell you’d’ve been better off if he’d done nothing.”  


“Ugh that tastes horrible.” John turns around slowly, still careful not to tug on the sutures.  


“Dude I gotta do your leg too. You might want that back in.”  


“Oh yeah.” John fits the rubber between his teeth again and nods at you. You sit on his knee to hold him still, and draw out some more thread.  
“I’m not even going to lie. This is really going to fucking hurt.” You thread the needle and pull the wound shut, wondering what would be best to do here. You’ll have to thread two stitches at each end and not tie them yet, stick a mattress stitch at the peak of the wound where it curves over his muscle, and then stitch from the centre out.  


John nods. “I ‘now.”  


“No you don’t. This is right up near your groin. If you pass out I totally understand. Okay deep breath and 3-2-1.” You pinch the skin and stick the needle through. John makes a weird noise in the back of his throat that is somewhere between a scream and a moan. “I’ll only need like ten stitches. You right?” He can’t talk so you have to talk for him. Keep his mind off the pain. Keep it clinical.  


John squints at you and nods. His next breath is shaky.  


You’ve threaded the end stitches, and you tell him that. You tell him about a mattress stitch and how it will hurt more, but it’ll pull the edges of the cut together and hold it better than anything else. “Okay hold tight.” You’ve got the mattress stitch through you just need to tighten it and tie it off. “Pulling this together.” And you do. You can’t help but laugh a little. “It’s like I’m closing the Grand Canyon or something.”  


John gives you this look that you just know means you’re fucking kidding me right?  


“Sorry it’s helping me not freak the fuck out.” You tie the blanket stitch off and cut it free. “Okay half way. Like I’m about three seconds away from punching through a window or something.” And you’re not even kidding it's just going to happen at this rate. “I’m that distressed. I know I’ve got nothing on you, but fuck man.” Uh oh. You need to stop your mouth right now. You tie off another suture. “I was so worried a cop would show up at my place, with your glasses and your dad and just say ‘sorry there was an accident, we found a body.’” John whines around the rubber. You should shut up now. You don’t. You start on the stitches that you threaded at the start. “Two more. But yeah, every day that went past people would stop thinking you were coming back. One by one. About a week ago it was just your dad, Karkat, and me. A few hours ago Karkat messaged me and said ‘I don't think he’s coming back Dave’.” John wipes at his eyes. Shit you made him cry. You bite your tongue but you’ve started now. There’s no stopping you. You cut the thread and start tying the last stitch. “He just told me that I should give up too. Stop looking or something. Stop asking questions. I don’t know. I don't think he understood that I couldn't fucking do that.” You gasp and suddenly your throat’s too tight you can’t breath can't think your brain and hands are running along and you’re sprinting after them, trying to stop yourself before you fucking say it. “I just.” And your mouth is stalling, letting your hands catch up and you cut the last stitch and put everything down you’re done you can't stop your traitor mouth if your life depended on it. “I really fucking love you and I was so fucking scared to tell you, because you’d probably just laugh at me, say something about not being gay. I don’t know.” You finally wrestle control of your body back and you stand. You need to get away, get time to think and find some way to play this off. Hide because there are tears streaming down your face. “I’m going to have a shower.”  


John grabs your hand and spits the rubber out all at once.  


“No. Fuck off. I’ve used my emotional quota for the year.” You shake his hand off and your voice cracks. “I’m fucking crying already, don't do this to me.”  


“Dude.” And fuck John’s crying too. Great. You’re a shitty person and an asshole. “I’ve liked you for a year. You should’ve told me.”  


You cant help the laugh that spills out of your throat like poisonous black sludge. “A year he says.” Oh god you need to stop now, but its all so detached, like you’re not in control of your body. “How old are we, like nineteen? I’ve fucking loved you since we were thirteen. I bit my tongue and watched you date all those girls because it made you happy. I just-”  


John is dead silent and you don't want to look at him right now. You’ll break.  


You cover your face with your hands and wipe it as dry as you can. “Fucking. I need a shower.” You leave John sitting on the floor in silence.  


You strip off angrily, and you get stuck on your binder, caught around your shoulders and elbows. “Fuck!” You pull at it as hard as you can and throw it on the ground before kicking it across the floor. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” You turn the shower on and hope that the hot water might fix this. “Do I actually hate myself that much? Like. How stupid do you get? Yes. Let’s tell the straight kid that you’re so fucking gone for him that its not even passable as irony anymore!” You’re shouting but you don't care. In the bathroom it bounces back at you and you can imagine that there’s another you in the room shouting at you for you. "Oh no, sorry officer the charges are correct this isn’t a joke anymore, you’re going to have to cuff me and put me in the fucking van.” You step in the shower. “Maybe the court will go easy on me if I plead fucking guilty! Get out on community service if I’m real lucky, picking up trash for a shorter sentence. Better throw myself in the can, save everyone else the trouble!” You shut up when you hear a knock on the door. “What?” You tip your face into the water and close your eyes. Maybe the water will drown out John’s voice.  


“I could hear you, you know.” His voice is still quiet and meek and all the energy just saps out of you.  


You groan. “Yeah. I fucking know. The walls are paper thin. You could make a book out of this apartment.”  


“I’m not straight you know.”  


Your voice comes out bitter and wrecked. “Could’ve fooled me.” And the anger’s back. How dare he? He can't just suddenly decide now, after nineteen years, that he's okay with fucking guys. Maybe it's just you. Maybe you don't count to him because you're a freak. He can't just do that! But he can really. You can't tell him what he can and can't do with this stuff. You scrub your hands through your hair to wet it thoroughly.  


“Dude. I’m pansexual. Calm down.”  


You get your fingers tangled in your hair and in that moment you feel like such a fuck up, can't even do something this simple, that you shout “fucking hell just fucking fuck!”, yell something wordless, and then punch the tiles. “Fuck!” You take a deep breath and force yourself calm. “Okay. I am totally calm. I am the calmest.” And because you have to know. Know whether this is him doing a trial run on someone who doesn't matter or if he’s serious. “So how many guys did you have to hook up with to figure that out then?”  


“Dave! It’s not like that.”  


“Well it seems to be that way for you.” And that was a low blow. You turn the shower off and just stand in the tub for a while.  


“I dated those girls just to get tips from them. I only kissed two girls.”  


The tiles are comfortable and cool when you lean your head against them. But you can’t stay here forever. “I bet they were thrilled.” You step out of the shower and drip all over the floor. “What did they say when they found out you were just there to dick around and maybe get hints to hit on the guy with the wrong fucking body?”  


John snorts and there’s more colour to his voice but he’s not quite normal. “I got slapped. Not much to say about it.” You stare sullenly at your towel and force yourself to grab it when John talks again. “There wasn’t much I could do. I really wanted to tell you… I actually was going to, but then…”  


“Yeah, of course.” This. But if he really wanted to tell you he would’ve done it when he wanted to. You dry your hair and wrap your towel around your body. “Cover your virgin eyes I’m coming out.” You never were the best at wording things. When you open the door John is standing there in your trackies and a shirt that's way too loose around the neck and his hands over his eyes. You really want to kiss him but you don't know if that's appropriate. You walk past him and straight to your room to get some clothes on. This is a pants on discussion. You put on a pair of tracksuit pants and one of your too big hoodies because you are not putting a binder back on now. You’re about half an hour away from hitting the hay. You just need to pack the lounge room up so Bro doesn't think you've started cutting again.  


You stomp past John and kneel by the couch. “You know when I got to fourteen I thought that maybe I would grow out of it.” You shove things into the first aid kit in some semblance of a pattern. “Give it a few months. Maybe some pretty guy would come along and forgive me for my fucked up everything. Maybe fuck the lust out of me.” You violently zip the bag shut and shove it aside to pick up all the little bits of rubbish. “I’m so fucking stupid. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut. Saved us both the trouble. Let us go on as friends. Sure I wouldn't be all too happy or whatever but at least I’d still have you there.” You stand with a fistful of shitty sutures and wet cotton wool. John just stares at you and you don't want to hear what he has to say. “Oh yeah great, he’s got nothing to say.” You stalk to the kitchen and throw the rubbish away before coming back and picking up the first aid kit and taking it back to the bathroom.  


“Dave!” John almost yells.  


“What?” You snap back. You really don't want to hear what he has to say.  


“Calm down.” He says as you pass him.  


“I said it before. I am the calmest. It is me John.” You shove the first aid kit under the sink and gather the dirty clothes. “Do you want to keep these clothes?”  


“No.” John shakes his head and wont even look at them.  


You walk past him again and this is going to kill you in a second. You drop your clothes in the basket before taking the unwanted clothes to the bin in the kitchen. You don't move from there, just close the cupboard and stand at the sink, your hands on the counter. You wonder if anything you have to say is worth it, or if it’ll fuck things up more. If possible.  


“Look. I know I’m a block head, and I should’ve figured it out sooner.” Damn right he should’ve. You weren’t subtle with him. You’re the one who can’t get emotions without a neon sign. You only know happy and distressed in John because you spent the time learning it. “I shouldn't have been a coward, and just said so.”  


“Really.” Your voice is still croaky and too high and you just want to cry some more and crawl in a hole.  


“Really.” He says it with such conviction. “But I didn’t before… it happened, and I couldn't act on it sooner.” You don't move. Your finger just clench down on the bench top. John’s voice has gotten really soft and awkward and you think you know what he’s about to say, just because it’s so predictable and such a fucking romantic. “I know it’s super late, but… I love you.”  


That breaks something in you. You knew it was coming but something in your gut snaps like a twig. “You’re a fucking meatball.” You whisper. You don't trust your voice not to betray you if you speak any louder. You lift your hands to your face when you feel the first tear dribble onto your cheekbone and press it into your palm. The words get caught in your wrists and you’re glad they do because you don't want John to hear you, you just want to get it out of your system. “God I don't deserve this.” You’re angry that you’re crying again. Isn’t it enough that you were bawling your eyes out earlier? You shouldn’t even be lumping all of this on John, just because you’re scared and worried and you just spent two months terrified that you’d never see him again.  


“D-don't cry!” You just sniff and wipe at your eyes. You left your shades in your room so there’s no hiding from him. “I’m sorry…” John is right behind you; you can almost feel him he’s that close, “I didn't mean to make you cry.”  


He shouldn’t be apologising for this. He shouldn’t be apologising for anything. If anything you should be apologising to him, so you do. “I’m so sorry you’ve been through hell and back. I shouldn't’ve gone off at you like that.”  


“It’s okay. I kind of deserved it.”  


“No you didn’t.” He’d never deserve any of that. Any of anything bad. “There’s some Panadol in the pantry. Might take the edge off it.”  


John shifts behind you. “I’ll be fine.” He sounds exhausted, and you know he won’t be, but you don’t press it. “Don’t worry about it.”  


You still each for the cupboard above the sink and pull out a small brown bottle. “Come here there’s like two things that still need checking but you can do the second one yourself. Bring the tissues over.”  


“Okay.” You turn around in time to see him grab the tissues and come back. You open the bottle and set it on the counter by your hip and snag a few tissues.  


“Open wide.” John obediently opens his mouth and you can see, even in the low light, how cut up his mouth is. You shove the tissues in his mouth to dry it out, dabbing around carefully before pulling them out and grabbing another tissue. You scrunch it up and hold it to the open bottle and shake it around a bit. “This is going to sting.” You want before pressing the dark liquid to pretty much the entire interior of his mouth. He winces, but holds his ground. “It should go numb for a while though.” You can see John pressing his tongue to all the sore spots of his mouth. “You can check your junk out in your own time.” You screw the cap back on the bottle and put it in the cupboard again. “It’s fucking late,” and it is; if its before midnight you’ll be very surprised, “I’m going to bed.” You take the tissue box out of John’s hands and put it away on the way past. John says nothing.  


You flow on the bed and burrow under the covers, fully expecting John to join you. The couch has no blankets and the only other bed is Bro’s. John stops at the door and knocks on the frame. “Can I come in?”  


“Yeah sure. Just let me get comfy before you hop in bed.” You kick your pants off and out of the bed, and shuffle the pillows around to your liking. “Okay.”  


“Oh. I was just going to get a blanket from your closet. Sleep on the couch.” You can’t see him because your room’s too dark.  


“You always sleep in my bed when you stay over. Just shut the door behind you.” John is silent, but he shuts the door. You feel the bed depress when he sits on the edge. You sit up and push the covers aside. “You can’t sleep like that. Get in.”  


John gets under the covers, staying well away from you and you feel almost hurt except you did scream at him for half an hour, so you deserve it. You squirm until you’re comfortable, your back against the wall. You sort of wish John would push you up against it and kiss you senseless.  


John shifts a pillow and you know he’s hugging it because he always hugs a pillow. “Thanks. For everything.” His words are muffled and he’s suffering from a numb tongue, which means the stuff you put in his mouth is working.  


“It's fine. I’m just glad you’re okay.” You close your eyes and you lose the vague silhouette of him to the darkness. John shifts a little; you can hear the blankets rustling. “Ugh that came out way wrong. I’m just glad you’re alive. Here. That I didn’t have your dad show up on my porch and say ‘sorry son’.” And there goes your mouth again.  


John nods. “That would have been the worst.”  


And apparently it is not time for you to blurt out more emotions and truth. “I don't know what I would’ve done.” You reach your hand out across the mattress, and the fabric is icy to your touch. You stop before you touch John, unsure if it would be all right or not.  


John’s hand lands on your arm. “Let’s not bog ourselves down with what could have been.”  


You pull your arm back until it slips through John’s grip and your hand is in his. John laces your fingers together. “You sound just like your dad.” You tug at his hand lightly.  


“Sometimes that’s a good thing.” His hand squeezes yours lightly.  


“Oh my god you can’t even take a subtle hand pull. Come here you giant nerd.”  


John scoots closer to you all at once and you’re pressed between him and the wall and you feel so safe. His arms wrap around you and you feel tiny even though you have height and weight on him. “There, better?”  


“Yeah.” You pause. “So what now.”  


“Shush. Bed time.” John presses his face into your shoulder.  


“No I’m serious. I’m amazed your dad hasn't knocked my front door flat. Are you going to go to the police? You should get tested for diseases.” Your brain won’t stop running at a million miles an hour.  


John goes very, very still and you know you just said the wrong thing. “I.. should be fine. He was… careful.”  


You bring the hand that isn’t holding John’s hand up and rub his face with it. “Better safe than sorry.”  


John sighs and his breath is hot against your face. “Right.” You stare at him and he snuggles back down to go to sleep. “G’night Dave.”  


You want to. You’re going to ask. “Hey John. Can you trust me for one more minute?”  


“When haven’t I trusted you?”  


“I just screamed at you for thirty minutes. I would totally understand if you never wanted anything to do with me ever. Like I’m Undesirable No. 1 right now. The Ministry has been looking all over for me. Totally dangerous. Way out of control.”  


John chuckles and you’re going to explode in a minute. “Dave, I don’t mind. I really don’t.”  


“You should.” He should.  


“I’ve had longer screaming matches with Jade and Jane. You’re fine.” You’re not.  


“They’re your siblings it’s supposed to happen. But hold still for like five seconds.”  


“Alright.” And John goes stock still save for his shallow breaths, which fan out over your face every so often.  


You just keep staring at him, your hand still on his face, and you lean forwards to kiss him, hesitating before you actually do—would this be okay with John, given everything he just went through? Would he suddenly realise that you’re very much a guy and he’s very much straight and that doesn't bode well for kissing? —there’s only one way to find out, so you lean forwards that last inch and press your lips to his for a few moments and he doesn’t move oh god you’ve fucked up he’s going to get up and leave you’re being so fucking irrational but you don't care it would make sense if he did.  


You pull back and blurt an apology.  


John presses his lips to the corner of your mouth and you can feel he’s smiling. “Don’t mind at all.”  


“Then do you mind if we do more of it?” You ask, you’re pushing the boundaries but that’s what you do. One day you will find the hard limit. “Like right now?” You think you can hear Bro closing the front door but you don't care.  


John shakes his head. “I’d be happy to.” You fear for what will happen in the morning, when John wakes up in your arms and the blankets aren’t there to keep this all a big secret.  


“Because we might not get another chance for a while.” And you might not. Not like this. There will always be time to squeeze fingers together and for quick pecks on the cheek, but John will go home tomorrow and his dad will take him to the hospital and the police station and depending on what happens you might not get him alone like this for months. You’re infinitely glad you brought him home with you rather than taking him to the hospital.  


You tighten your grip on John’s face, maybe too much, and kiss him desperately, and god you’ve got no idea what you’re doing but this is already so much more overwhelming than you expected it to be. You pull John closer and he moves with you, pins you against the wall with his body and his lips move against yours, and your fingers are definitely digging into his face and isn’t this a really fucking romantic first kiss John must be so fucking proud. He pulls away far too soon and you’re chasing him but for all the weight he’s lost he’s still to heavy for you to move and you want all his pudge and muscle back so you can love all of him damnit!  


“Oh god I’ve waited so long to even have a slim chance to do this.” You shift your hand so its cupping the back of his head rather than digging your nails into his cheek, and squeeze his fingers with your other hand.  


“Then shut up and kiss me.”  


“I am.” You press your lips back to his, because he deigned to move in range of you again and you tilt your head a fraction this time and you’re so nervous to try this what if he doesn't like it and you lick across his bottom lip and his lips part just the barest hint and he sucks a breath in and the next thing you know his hands are grabbing at your waist, pulling you closer to him if possible and you are not complaining. Not complaining one bit.  


You move your lips with John’s, following his lead slim though it is. You really have no idea what you’re doing. He presses harder against your face for a moment and when he pulls back your bottom lip is between his teeth and he puts some pressure and that sparks something in you and you moan without meaning to. Your leg hooks over John’s and you don't realise that you’ve done it until you use it to pull him closer and he’s pressed right up against you, you think he’s hard but you don't know for sure—  


John’s teeth clamp down on your lip and his fingers pull at your hair and waist and when did his hand get up there? You jerk back in surprise even though the feeling of his teeth on your lips isn’t entirely unpleasant. “Fuck.” Your breaths are coming hard and so are his and yeah, he’s definitely hard you think. It feels weird. “Are you- is this okay?” You have to know got to make sure you’re not-  


“W-we might want to stop.” Your fingers loosen in his hair and you pull back a little. You fucked up you went too far shit-  


You try to play it cool. “Yeah? You just look really embarrassed.” And he does. His eyes aren’t meeting your face and his cheeks are red.  


“I-I’ve never done that much before. It’s kinda new…” He leans forwards and for a moment you think he’s going to kiss you again but he just presses his face into your shoulder.  


“Hey, you wanna know a secret?” You whisper into his ear. “Five minutes ago I had never kissed anyone.” And you just lost your Cool Kid Cred with him.  


“R-really?” You can hear a flicker of doubt in his voice but for once you weren’t joking. You nod earnestly and he looks back up at you. “Wow… didn’t know that.” You find that surprising. You’ve never boasted about kissing someone to him, and if you weren’t so in love with him that you felt guilty any time someone hit on you, you probably would’ve done so.  


“Yeah, don't tell anyone. It’ll ruin my image.”  


“I won’t.” John is smiling when he presses his lips to your chin. “How ‘bout we get some rest? We should tell everyone I’m okay tomorrow.”  


“Yeah. That sounds really good.” On a whim, you kiss John again, and your noses bump together but you don’t really care. “Sorry I just had to.” You squeeze John’s hand where its still laced with yours. “Night.”  


“G’night, Dave.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...I don't even ship JohnDave  
>  how  
> [Also I have a giveaway going on right here!!!](http://lispetsketches.tumblr.com/post/100397817938/lispets-100-follower-giveaway)


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